My faithful old companion Kojak is twenty years old, and it won’t be long before the Maine coon cat who shares rooms with me, as Watson would say of Sherlock Holmes, is chasing blind mice through a celestial field of catnip. He can barely walk, but he still likes to eat. Putting him in a cat kennel would hasten his demise. The old guy and I had been through a lot together. I had a heart-to-heart and asked him if he wanted to go fishing. He had yawned, which I took as a yes.
My charter party arrived a half-hour late. The big black Toyota Sequoia pulled into the marina parking lot and four men got out. Three of them ambled down the dock carrying coolers like porters in a safari. The short, hairless man in the lead climbed onto the deck of my boat.
“I’m Glick,” he said.
Glick was around five-foot-five and maybe half that wide. His stout body was supported by two short legs as thick as tree trunks that extended from plaid shorts containing a melange of every color in the rainbow and then some.
“Welcome aboard the Thalassa, Mr. Glick.”
Glick had called the day before. He said that he ran a string of nursing homes. He wanted to take three associates for a fishing trip, and we negotiated a price.
I stowed the coolers in the storage compartments and asked Glick if he and his friends were ready to go fishing.
“Not quite yet,” he said. “I’d like to renegotiate the price.”
I stood firm, legs wide apart, my arms crossed across my chest. “Sorry, Mr. Glick. A boat can’t run on air. Price we agreed on yesterday stands.”
Apparently, he didn’t understand my body language. He moved so close that our bellies almost touched, although mine was a lot flatter. My guess was that he used his intimidating frontal bulk to bully residents in his over-priced old folks’ warehouses when they asked for an extra helping of Jell-O.
When physical intimidation didn’t work, he jutted his fleshy jaw out. “What guarantee do I have that we’ll catch fish?”
“No guarantee. I’ll put you and your friends on top of the fish. The rest is up to you.”
He placed his forefinger on the second of his three chins. “How about prorating the fee based on the number of fish caught?”
“Sorry. That won’t work. I’ll show your friends how to catch fish. If they don’t land the fish they hook, I’m out a day’s charter.”
Glick gave me a sly smile. “You could be out a day’s charter if I canceled the trip.”
“And you’d be out a deposit. Don’t forget, you gave me your credit card number.”
The smile vanished and the eyes in his pale face narrowed to a squint.
“We’d better catch fish,” he growled.
I gave him a lop-sided grin and poked him in the tummy like the Pillsbury doughboy. He stepped back and glared at his friends, who’d been listening and watching. I started the outboards, untied the dock lines and eased the boat out of its slip. We followed the channel markers to the mouth of the harbor and I pointed the Thalassa’s bow southeast. The seas were barely a foot high. We made good time to Monomoy Island, a long slender finger of dunes that hangs off the Cape’s “elbow,” then ran south to Nantucket shoals.
Although it was morning, Glick’s friends dug beers out of their coolers and got into the sandwiches I provide as part of the deal. They finished their breakfast and beer about the same time we arrived on the shoals. The fish-finder screen displayed dozens of finny silhouettes. Sea birds dove into the water to catch bait being chased to the surface by bigger fish. A strong briny smell filled the air. I handed out rods and reels and gave a quick lesson in how to use them. A couple of passengers had fished before, and within minutes, they began to pull in striped bass.
The waters were thick with stripers. It was almost impossible not to hook a fish. When the schooling fish moved on, I followed.
I measured each fish, and tossed back those that weren’t keepers. The fish box rapidly filled. In between sizing fish and tending the wheel, I tossed a line over the side and hooked a few big lunkers for myself. It had the makings of a great first trip, but as the boat rocked in the waves, I began to notice that the smiles were vanishing. The combined effects of the beer and food, the smell of fish and engine exhaust, and the rolling of the boat, were taking their toll.
The faces around me were tinged with green. One guest made a gurgling sound, set his fishing rod down and leaned over the side to disgorge the contents of his stomach. Another followed his example. I held the two men by the back of their shirts so they wouldn’t go overboard. Within minutes, every passenger was sick except for Mr. Glick, who had not had any beer. This was probably a blessing given the potential volume of his digestive system. He protested heavily when his friends said they wanted to head back to shore.
“You morons! I’m paying for a whole day of fishing,” he said.
A chorus of pitiful moans greeted his announcement. I took pity on the seasick guys.
“Your friends here look like a bunch of avocados, Mr. Glick. Why don’t you put it up for a vote?” Before he could answer, I added, “Who wants to call it a day?”
Two hands went in the air. The third man bent over and emptied his breakfast at Glick’s feet.
“I’ll take that as a vote,” I said. “Looks like we’re out of here.”
Glick glowered, but he didn’t argue when I rinsed his splattered boat shoes with the deck hose. I gathered up all the fishing rods and headed the boat back to the mainland. The passengers looked better by the time we coasted into the slip and tied up, but they couldn’t wait to get off the boat. I pulled the fish from the cooler and laid them out side-by-side on the dock so the guys could take photos of their catch.
Glick took a wad of cash from a wallet and made a big show of peeling off the bills with his stubby fingers.
I counted the money and said, “This is only pays for a half day, Mr. Glick.”
“We only went out for half a day.”
“Not my fault. There was a vote.”
“Screw the vote.”
“Suit yourself. I’ve got your credit card number, remember?”
His jowls quivered and he snarled an order at his friends, who started to pile the fish into a plastic wheelbarrow.
“Each man gets two fish,” I reminded them. “You can choose the biggest. Rest goes back to the boat. You caught three fish, Mr. Glick. You can take two home.”
“What are you going to do with my third one?”
“I’ll sell it. Policy is plainly printed on the contract you signed. Folks tend to waste fish if they take too many.”
That’s when things began to get ugly.
Glick yelled that he paid for all his fish. He snatched up the monster striper I had caught, holding it in both hands at the narrow part where the tail meets the body. As he started to walk away, I reached out and grabbed the fish by one of its gills. Glick pulled. I stuck my fingers in the other gill and pulled back.
I was wearing gloves, and the gills offered better hand holds. But Glick outweighed me by fifty pounds. He put his flab to good use, leaning back at an angle. I used my arm strength to compensate. We stood on the dock playing tug-of-war with the fish. His weight began to tell. His lips widened in a smile of triumph. That’s when I jerked the fish, hard. The tail parted company with the body. Glick toppled backwards. His short legs tried to catch up with his body and did a funny little dance walk, then he went off the dock and landed in the water with a mighty splash.
He went under and bobbed to the surface with a wet curse on his lips. He shouted at his friends, who pulled him back onto the dock. Water dripped off his nose. His clothes were glued to his body. He was still holding the fish tail.
“Okay, Mr. Glick,” I said with a shrug. “You can keep your half of the fish.”
I imagined that I saw steam coming from his ears. He tossed th
e tail in the water, whirled around, and sloshed back to his car, followed by his entourage. He got behind the wheel of the Sequoia and slammed the door. His hand shot out the window and he flipped me what in polite circles is referred to as a single finger salute. I held up the mutilated fish and pointed at it. I guess that irritated him. When he pulled out of the parking lot, he left half his tire rubber stuck to the tarmac.
I threw the shortened striper into an ice chest, rinsed my hands off and walked up the dock to Trader Ed’s. I slid onto a bar stool and ordered a glass of Cape Cod Red beer. I was on my second glass when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the smiling face of Sheila Crumley.
She slid onto the stool next to me. “Hi, Soc. I had the feeling I’d find you here.”
Sheila was a reporter with the daily newspaper. I had met her at the bar while I was organizing my charter venture. She was middle-aged plump but still sexy. She’d been intrigued when I quoted a couple of the philosophers I was named after. She had the curiosity and disarming manner of a good reporter, and my brain was slightly lubricated with alcohol.
I had given her the Cliff’s Notes version of my life story. How I had been a Marine in Vietnam and later a Boston cop, couldn’t handle the politics and the ghosts of war that haunted my memory. And how, when my fiancé died in a car crash and I drowned myself in an alcoholic sea of self-pity, I gave up my cop career and moved to Cape Cod hoping the demons who had taken up residence in my head would choke on the salty air. I told her about fishing with Sam, and pushed my charter boat plans, hoping for some ink. She really got excited when I said that I sometimes hired out as a private detective and a diver.
“Buy you a beer?” I offered. I was feeling flush with the cash from Glick in my wallet.
“No thanks, but I’ll take a margarita. Easy on the sour mix.”
I ordered a drink for Crumley and we clinked glasses. “What’s new with the Fourth Estate?” I said.
She pulled a copy of the newspaper from her oversized purse and spread it out on the bar. The long red nail on her plump finger tapped a front-page banner headline:
POLICE IDENTIFY BURN MURDER VICTIM AS RUSSIAN
“Cape Cod ain’t what it used to be,” I said. “I remember when a stolen bucket of clams was considered a crime wave.”
She took a sip of her drink. “Professional opinion?”
“Speaking as a fisherman?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Soc. Speaking as an ex-homicide cop and a private eye. Whaddya think?”
I slid the paper over and read the article. The guy had died a hard death in the woods near the county airport. Someone had tied him to a tree with baling wire, emptied a can of gasoline over his head, ran a trail of gas, lit it from a safe distance and turned the victim into a human torch. He must have seen all this happening and would have known it was going to end badly for him. Duct tape sealed his lips. Poor guy couldn’t even scream.
In an irony that must have escaped the victim, the flames spread into the woods, attracting trainees from a nearby firefighting training school.
“Tough way to go,” I said. “Someone didn’t like him.”
“I talked to some of the firefighter trainees. They’ve decided on career changes. I saw the photos of the victim. I don’t blame them.”
She told me that the cops had traced the dead man to his motel room. They found no luggage, but his car was still parked at the motel. The registration identified him as Viktor Krasnov from Brighton Beach, New York. He had earned a police record as a supplier of Oxycontin and had spent a few years in jail. No one knew what he was doing away from his home turf. She asked my opinion.
“It’s obvious,” I said. “Ivan did it.”
“Ivan? Ivan who?”
“Ivan nobody.”
“Sometimes I find it hard to follow you, Soc.”
“Ivan is a generic term for a Russian. Not exactly politically correct, but it was very big during the Cold War.”
“Okay. And—”
“The guy came from Brighton Beach. Russian Mafia. Drug trade. He drove up here to make a deal, or he was on the run. Maybe the deal went bad, and someone caught up with him. Maybe he held back some money from his bosses.” I went on in some detail, making up a fictional scenario that might have fit the facts.
“Why not just shoot him? Why play Joan of Arc with the poor bastard?”
“It was a warning to others. Don’t cross Ivan the Terrible or you’re toast. Literally.”
She pondered my words for a moment, then slid off her stool. “Thanks, Soc. You’ve been a big help.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. “Got to go. Deadline.”
“Always a pleasure, Sheila.”
I had another beer and decided I had better feed Kojak. I strolled back to the dock, passing a police cruiser, and saw a female uniformed officer standing near my slip, talking to another boat owner who pointed to me.
The cop came over, asked if I were Mr. Socarides, and identified herself as Officer Tucker. She was young, mid-twenties maybe. I asked what I could do for her.
“I’m following up on a complaint of assault and battery from a Mr. Glick. Says you pushed him in the water.”
“That’s not exactly what happened,” I said. I told her about the fishy tug-of-war and pulled the mutilated fish from the cooler as evidence.
“Exhibit A,” I said.
Her mouth did a little on-and-off smirk. She was having a hard time maintaining a cop face.
“Any witnesses to this, ah, incident?” she said.
“Three guys who work for him. Not sure if they’ll be impartial, though. Mr. Glick strikes me as a rich guy who doesn’t like being embarrassed. I embarrassed him in front of his employees.”
“I looked up your background,” she said. “Saw the stuff about Vietnam and your cop work in Boston and the PI stuff, which makes me believe your version of events.”
“Don’t forget Exhibit A.”
“Oh, I haven’t.”
“Then that’s that.” I tossed the fish back into the cooler.
“Don’t be too sure, Mr. Socarides. Even if the criminal complaint doesn’t stick, he’ll probably sue you. That’s a pretty boat you’ve got there. Hate to see you lose it.”
I glanced at Thalassa, thinking about all the trouble I’d gone through to acquire her. “Yeah, me, too, Officer.”
“So I’d advise you to get in touch with a lawyer. In the meantime I’ll file a report and see where it goes from there.”
I thanked her and we shook hands. I stood on the dock and gazed at the Thalassa. Nice going, Socarides. First day of operation and you’re up to your eyeballs in a sea of trouble. I could lose my boat and my business. I tried to put a bright side on things. The police officer seemed sympathetic, and I had right on my side.
And I still had the fish with no tail.
CHAPTER 2
Daybreak in a busy harbor creates a concert all its own. The high-pitched cry of gulls is the flute section. The low rumblings of boat engines are the bassoons. The ting of halyards against aluminum masts is like the E string being plucked on a violin. The horn blast of the Steamship Authority ferry is like a tuba on steroids, and it’s a potent alarm clock as well.
I rolled out of my bunk, set a pot of coffee to brew while I took a quick shower and got dressed in shorts and blue polo shirt. I whipped up a feta cheese scrambled egg bagel. Then I carried Kojak and his dish out onto the deck where we dined al fresco. He happily munched the mature cat salmon treats, which are about all his old teeth can deal with.
After breakfast with a water view, I put my pal back in his bed below. He promptly fell asleep. I cleaned up the galley. At eight o’clock on the nose, my charter party arrived. The two middle-aged couples from Ohio were giddy with excitement at the prospect of their first fis
hing trip. The women were sisters, and as it turned out, they had a fisherman’s instinct. They pulled in more striped bass than their husbands, who cheered them on.
It was a great charter. The Ohio folks didn’t get sick from too much beer. They didn’t demand to keep the fish, preferring to take photos of their catch. The weather was beautiful. The people were fun and they displayed their appreciation with a fat tip. The trip wiped out the nastiness of the previous day’s charter. I hosed down the deck and flushed out the fish box, using routine tasks to put off pressing business. But eventually, I went below and was looking through the scribbles in my address book for the name of the lawyer who’d handled the sale of the Millie D., when the boat settled slightly. Someone had climbed aboard.
The waterfront crowd is a pretty informal bunch, but it’s still considered a breach of etiquette to board a boat without an invitation. If you see someone on a boat, you say hello and wait for the wave that passes for the informal invite. If no one is visible on deck, you call out an ahoy or ask if anybody is home. If there is no answer, you come back later.
Having to think about legal matters hadn’t put me in the best of moods. I slapped the address book shut and emerged from the cabin. Two men were standing on the stern deck. One man was almost my height, and his companion was several inches shorter. Both had on tight-fitting, shiny black leather jackets, even though the temperature was in the seventies. They wore snug black jeans and black running shoes. Mirrored aviator-style sunglasses with blue lenses hid their eyes.
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